


Breaking Free

by arianakristine



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Episode Fix-it, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Regina still gets punched in the face, Semi-Public Sex, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arianakristine/pseuds/arianakristine
Summary: There is nothing in the mausoleum but a casket, dust, and Emma at his side.





	Breaking Free

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was supposed to be a h/c smut fic based on a very old prompt from the ouat kink meme. It got slightly plotty on me, then rather plotty on me. It is now more “there, I fixed it” fic. Some dialogue is from 1x07. I really, really debated changing some of that dialogue (because I love that scene), but the changes made it necessary.

                “There’s nothing here.”

                She catches him by the coat, pulling his focus from his search. He feels panic climbing up his spine, and shakes. “There has to be. If there isn’t—“

                Their eyes catch, and she is in his space, earth and sweat and a hint of cinnamon on her skin as she leans in. “Graham, it’s okay,” she says. She drops her flashlight to the side and steadies him. Then she shifts, eyes locking. “It’s going to be okay,” she says directly, softly. She hovers there, hands clutched around the lapels of his jacket. Her gaze is imploring, asking so firmly to believe it.

                And he does. With his glassy eyes suddenly clearing on her face, he believes it. Believes her. A rush of emotion sparks in his gut, weakening his knees. _She never wanted you to be able to feel again._ But he does, and it’s so vivid right now. It’s clear as day.

                He loves her.    

                He’s loved her for months now, so long he cannot precisely find the point in which it began. He’s known for some time, dancing around the word in his head, but now he can’t escape from the intensity of it. He feels with her, after being empty for so long, and it’s not for some abstract reason. It’s because he _loves_ her enough to push through the numbness.

                And right now she’s not pushing him away like he thought she wanted. Not like after the kiss in the street, after she turned angry eyes to him, after ‘ _why do you care how I look at you_.’ She’s been so gentle and understanding, so exceedingly empathetic with him since he spotted her sitting inside the yellow bug outside the mansion half an hour ago.

                And now she’s staying, oh so close, so much that he can almost see past that wall she bricks up.

                He thinks he can see something there, something familiar and deep, that makes his breath quicken.

                He shifts fractionally closer, a bead of sweat that collected on his temple dripping down his face. She stays. She doesn’t break away, she’s not saying no; there’s no ‘what are you thinkings’ drifting past her lips. He glances down to them, the pink closer to red in the sheltered heat. He remembers, he thinks, exactly how they taste, even past the whiskey and regret.

                “Graham,” she says again, a sigh, a breath. Her hand flattens against his chest, over the _thump-thump-thump_ that doesn’t feel right. It’s an echo and a mirror of before on the street, like forgiveness in action rather than words.

                She cares. Why does she care?

                He thinks he knows, but doesn’t want to hope for it.

                He has been leaning against the wall for support, but something in her expression gives him more strength. He bends to minimize their height difference, still so hypnotized by what he sees in her, but careful not to brace against her instead. He feels weak, but also at the edge of something powerful.

                She turns into him, noses bumping ever so slightly. Her eyes close for just a second, and then it’s like she’s peering straight into the core of him. His head still feels fuzzy with half-remembered things, but that’s distant now. She is clearing through those cobwebs, even as his fever-flushed skin rises in heat.

                “It’s still not right,” she warns, but tilts on tip toes to push her forehead into his. “It’s still not right.”

                Yes, that’s true. He still doesn’t have his heart, he still hasn’t broken free. He doesn’t deserve her, not yet, maybe not ever. But there is anticipation in her breath, sweet and enticing.

                She breathes lowly and looks up, hovering as close as she dares. “But I still want—“ she cuts herself off, shuddering, teeth pulling her lip.

                He can’t quite believe the words, spoken and unspoken. There is no response he could give, and their breathing sounds deafening in the quiet.

                “It’s okay,” she repeats, and then she grips onto his coat and stares right into his eyes. “Let me make you feel okay.”

                He swallows, thinking her words are too unsteady for it to be as simple as that. She wants to give that reassurance, yes, he can believe that. But she’s seeking it as well. Mind not quite made up, he forgoes her lips, and instead rests his mouth at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. After a beat, he leaves a not-quite-kiss-not-quite-bite into her skin. Testing.

                She makes a sound between a sigh and a gasp, but it’s still not a no. Instead her arms round his back, pulling him closer in a mock-embrace. He hesitates before resting his hands on her hips, teeth grazing along the corded muscle.

                There should be words, shouldn’t there? He seems to forget all language as her fingers become nails, digging into his shoulders, pressing him closer as she falls back against the door.

                All he can think of is possession. He is not the mayor’s, can’t be. Not with how right it feels to know that he is _hers_.

                He sees the wolf again, somewhere beneath his eyelids.

                She anchors herself with one hand on the wall, the other scratching through his hair. She pulls with his push, her teeth grazing his ear when he sinks further into her neck. She claws at his vest, and he thinks she’s just finding purchase until the buttons separate and his tie loosens next.

                _Mine_ , his brain screams, the fever spiking and bubbling in his blood. He bites harder, and slips the red leather off her body before his hands surge up to fondle curves. She pushes into him and her free hand grabs the matching stripe at the neck of his coat and yanks down.

                As soon as both her hands are loose again, they are tugging the shirt from his trousers and slipping beneath. It’s all cold hands across hot skin and he hardens instantly. He doesn’t think, just snaps the button loose from her jeans and twists her around.

                She moans, deep and guttural, back arching to press herself against him. He is holding her tight, one hand cupping her breast and the other resting just under her hipbones. Her jeans are half open, but he finally finds a second of himself between the confusion and the passion, and hesitates.

                He fumbles through the screaming parts of him, and finally finds one word. “Yes?”

                She shudders, arching further. Her hand snakes back and yanks his belt free with deftness. “ _Yes_.”

                He moves to mark the other side of her smooth skin, teeth digging into her just enough to make her gasp. He can’t kiss her, not yet; it’s too soon for that. It means _more_ , as strange as it sounds.

                He can give them this in the meantime.

                Her pale skin in the glass-filtered moonlight glistens, starkly contrasted from the black of her tank top and the gold shimmer of her curls. He shifts his hand into her pants past rough jean and smooth lace, trying to ignore the circling of her hips against him to focus on finding the spot that makes her knees buckle.

                She is wet, the soft sounds she tries to bite down barely escaping her. His mind whites out, desperation and need filling those empty spots. He grunts as his lips move up the column of her neck and he quickly tugs her waistband down.

                “Please,” she gasps, goosebumps blooming across her half-naked skin.

                He barely understands why this is so important, why he needs to be here, with her, needs to be the one in control, needs to be inside her, needs, needs, _needs_. He feels so hot, so confused, so pained but this … this is necessary. He somehow knows that she is the key, the salvation, and he desperately wants to be that for her as well.

                He wants to study her, trace lithe muscle and smooth curves, wants to explore and anticipate. Wants to stretch her out and tease out those sounds until they become raw in her throat, wants to feel her shatter again and again. Wants to share the control, give and take, until they are both one, mending those broken pieces of themselves with each other.

                But there’s no time. It’s not even in how he aches, just touching those slick parts of her. Her head falls back against his chest, resting against him as he rolls circles against her and it whispers through him how beautiful she is like this.

                It’s deeper than the physical. It’s larger than the act. He needs to be a part of her, here and now.

                They would look a strange pair, he thinks distantly as he unzips himself, with clothes loosened and jostled but not fully removed, standing in near darkness and dust in the sepulchral scene. He holds her tight, buries his face into her pulse, and knows he could live forever like this.

                But one thing first.

                “Emma,” he finally utters, then sucks hard on the underside of her jaw. She reaches back around his neck to pull him snug, the other on his hip as she teeters on the cusp. She makes a sound that is close to a whimper, rocking against him and he pushes down the instant reaction to the feeling.

                “Please,” she whimpers, widening her stance awkwardly against the jeans bunched at her knees.

                “Sure?” he asks. The answer is necessary for many reasons, but seems infinitely important. _Choice_. Had he ever been given one? He wants to give her one now.

                “ _Fuck me_ ,” she hisses the demand, looking back as much as she can, her eyes wide and dark.

                It’s all he needs. He thrusts upward, groaning hard when he is flush to her body. “ _Fuck_ ,” he mouths into her hair. He is instantly clear-headed and in the moment. Wolves and storybooks don’t matter, and he doesn’t need to think about anything else beyond her.

                “Shit, yes, just—“ she stammers and leans her palms on the door, adjusting the angle until he feels lightheaded. “ _Now_.”

                He shudders and complies wordlessly, quick and rough. The tomb is suddenly too hot, something like defying the very nature of its purpose driving him to make it sharper, harder, _real_. While part of him wants to slow, to savor, he knows it isn’t in the cards. It is too good, and his entire body is consumed in feeling.

                Something niggles the back of his brain, something comparative perhaps but also _darker_ , but he is fully able to ignore it with the hot skin, demanding pace, and hummed sounds emitting from the woman he loves.

                Though the position puts him in tacit control, she is not idle. Emma glides back, movements barely contained, words of encouragement barely decipherable on her tongue as one hand slides off the wall to dip between her legs. Seeing her lost in her own pleasure makes him lose the trolled rhythm, bruising her hips with his fingers and laving against the mark on her neck, making him see stars alongside those visions of trees.

                Time speeds up to lightning, too quickly slipping through his fingers when he wants it to last an _eternity_.

                When she comes, it’s with a half-choked sigh and her golden curls thrown back against his cheek. He holds her hips tight as his own stutter, spending deep with a deep growl of pleasure.

                Their breaths are heavy in the dark, large swallows of breath as he leaves her body. He buries his head into her throat again, but this time to nuzzle against her, hugging her tight. She licks her lips with closed eyes and slumps back against him.            

                His heart may not feel real but everything else inside is triggered by her, warm and deep.

                “Feels right,” she says, just barely audible. He isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it.

                He grips her possessively closer and nods his assent anyway, pressing tender lips into her neck.

                She trembles slightly and crosses her arms over his, under the sleeves of his shirt to touch along his skin. “You’re better.”

                It’s not a question, although he nods again. She stabilizes him in a way that seems foreign. And he knows there is still fear and questions and memories trapped inside him, but she’s still right.

                She makes him better.

                After their breaths even, she slips out of his hold and carefully pulls her jeans back up, buttoning with shaky hands. She turns back, hair a mess and cheeks flushed and looking ravished, but her stare is piercing. “What now?” she asks.

                He looks down at himself, cold without her. He fastens his clothing, but considers the words. It’s a fair question, after all. Finally he looks up, meeting her stare with one of his own. “Now I know what’s real.”

                A small smile quivers on her lips before she sighs. “You’re complicated, buddy,” she mutters.

                He swallows, remembering what—or, better, who—makes him complicated. He’s sure it’s not the reassurance she is seeking.

                Her brow furrows, the small attempt at humor lost. “I don’t know how to get involved with you, Graham,” she finally says.

                He reaches out slowly, looping his fingers around her wrist, callouses brushing against her pulse. He is emboldened by the fact that she isn’t saying it’s impossible, just that she doesn’t know the hows. “I need to get away, first. I don’t—I don’t know how, but I _have_ to. I don’t trust her,” he said honestly, and fear strikes him deep as he realizes how much he believes it.

                She reaches up and cups his face in her palm, thumb across his cheekbone. It feels more intimate than the sex, more meaningful. “You want to get away?” she asks, a lash of vulnerability.

                He tilts and catches the pads of her fingers with his lips, soft and reassuring. He hopes she can see the truth in his eye, the seriousness, as he counts the freckles in hers. “Yes,” he says firmly, feeling that deep in his gut along with the dread.

                She swallows and pulls back, one arm around her torso as she finds her jacket on the ground. “Words are nothing,” she murmurs under her breath, and hands him his own.          

                He looks at her pensively. What they did … it’s easy, the physical, at least on paper. Having to deal with the emotion straight away after is different, especially for her it seems. There’s a thorn there, one she has never mentioned. He contemplates Henry for a moment as he pieces through it. He agrees with the statement, so much more than he thought he did before. Words used to mean something, didn’t they? They seem useless now.

                But he needs to try with words, because she needs to know. “Not just because I want you,” he says resolutely.

                She peers at him searchingly at that.

                 Ever since their kiss, the mere thought of Regina _burns_ and twists his gut in nausea. He had tried to right the wrong with the familiar, but it left him even more empty than usual. Now, after experiencing just a taste of what it could be like with Emma, he is certain of a pair of truths. Needing to be away from Regina is real on the same level as how much he loves Emma; concrete, the only things he knows for sure are true. “It won’t be easy, but it will be done,” he finishes after a long pause.

                “Why is everyone so damn afraid of her?” she mutters, mostly rhetorically.

                His mouth parts, but he doesn’t voice his suspicions. Doesn’t use Henry’s words. _Evil Queen_. Judging the look she is giving him, she hears it anyway.

                “Don’t start,” she warns.

                He holds up his hands before stuffing them in his pockets. There is a beat, and he looks her over again. He thinks again about how much he loves her, and if what he believes is true then he will be sure to protect her from anything Regina tries. The protectiveness bleeds out through his pores, fists tightening at the thought.

                Her face softens. “You look …,” she pauses, a small smile. A _pleased_ smile. She is proud of herself, and it makes his blood warm to see it. Her being possessive of him – that’s heady. She shakes her head as if to clear it. “It won’t be the same with us, will it?” she muses.

                He smiles, dropping his gaze to her hand. He carefully grabs it in his and takes it to his cheek again, wanting the intimacy back. “Better, I think.”

                She sighs and leans up to rest her forehead on his. “You still feel warm. We should get back to the station, get you some water, or maybe to bed.”

                Bed sounds good. Just not in the way lonely way she is implying. His blood spikes again, and he suddenly is overcome with the idea of watching her face contort among a sea of pillows and sheets. He growls slightly, tugging her to him. He wants to capture her lips, almost does. But he hesitates. “I want— _you_. I _want_ you.”

                Her pupils dilate, darkly blown across the green irises.

                He wants her in every way. And yet … he knows he can’t, not yet. If they stick on this path, they won’t get to the fulfillment he knows they are capable of. He grits his teeth and pulls back. “But I think I need to be free first.”

                She presses her lips together but nods compulsively. “Yeah, okay,” she says. There’s worry there, but also agreement. “How did you start—why—“ she stops herself, shaking her head.

                He shrugs uselessly. He never knew how or why. It just was, just as it always was. Because Regina wanted and Regina took. He can’t remember ever having a choice in the matter. “She’ll fight. Not because of—but because she doesn’t like to lose. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you out of it,” he swore.

                She rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to protect me. I can hold my own with her.”

                He remembers an apple tree. “I know. But I don’t want you to have to.”

                She frowns, but doesn’t argue, circling the dust with a toe. “And then what?”

                He smiles down at her, face softening. “And then you know what.”

                She smirks, but he can see that she understands the full meaning. Not just the physical; they’ve had that now. “We started this all backwards.”

                He gives a half smile. “We haven’t even really kissed,” he agrees.

                She blushes prettily in the dark and laughs, hand smoothing across her rumpled clothing. “Yeah. Backwards,” she reiterates. “And somehow we’re still hanging around this place. Are you done here?”

                No. That’s his first gut reaction. His heart is somewhere here. But perhaps he can wait, now that he knows she is on his side. “Another day,” he concedes.

                She turns with a shake of her head and opens the door a crack. She bends to pick up the discarded flashlight before facing him again. The beam dances as she steadies it. She pauses, her mouth dropping as she looks toward his feet. “Oh, you’ve _got_ to be freaking _kidding_ me.”

                He frowns. “What?”

                She snarls and darts past him, to the casket. She points the beam of light to the floor, the sliver of a gap between the stone and the marble. Flakes of limestone sprinkle along the scrapes on the ground, telltale signs of use. “Help me push,” she says grudgingly.

                He doesn’t even remember bumping the casket in their act, because they certainly didn’t see this before. His eyes are wide on it, and it takes him a second before he assists her by leaning his weight against the firm wood. He isn’t completely shocked when it easily moves away. A staircase is exposed, winding into the darkness. He looks at her proudly. “You see?”

                She nods. “Seeing. Still working on believing,” she mutters.

                “This means—“

                “No,” she says sharply. It reminds him of a wounded animal, violent in fear.

                He is practically vibrating in the vindication, but he knows better than to push. At least with words. “Okay, then let’s see,” he coaxes and holds out his hand.

                She hesitates at the top step, and grabs his hand firmly. She stares into the abyss for a long beat and then sharply turns back to him. She glances up at him, eyes large. “I can’t—“ It’s hitched, her words, and she can’t keep her eyes on his for longer than a few seconds.

                “Emma, breathe,” he says, and pulls her in. It’s his turn now, to comfort, to soothe. He places a hand on her back, breathing steadily to have her match. He is practically itching to descend, but he needs to reassure her first.

                She swallows and blinks, suddenly the pillar of strength. “Okay. I’m—let’s go.”

                She tugs him down the stairs, the thankful squeeze on his hand almost an afterthought.

                The cellar beneath the tomb is cavernous and pulsates with a claustrophobic energy. Candle flames and potion jars, an empty book podium, curtains hiding enclaves are just a few of the adornments. It is ominous, to say the least, but is exactly what he expects. “Figures this’d be Regina’s,” she grouses.

                He looks toward the curtain to their right, feeling the draw deep in his stomach again. “It’s there.”

                Her voice is strangled as she utters, “your heart?”

                He nods once, firmly. “My heart.”

                “I’m going insane,” she breathes, but parts the thick fabric to unveil the stacks upon stacks of drawers. Just like in Henry’s book.

                It was like being struck with lightning. “This is … I’m not crazy, am I?” he breathes.

                She exhales sharply, then turns to press her nose into his shoulder. “If you are, I am,” she says shakily. “Just … get yours. And then we get out of here.”

                His. His eyes flick over the boxes, the countless hearts from others. “Should we take them all? If they’re someone’s …,” he asks uncertainly. Are all of them full? The beating is like mad, all in sync, making him think it must be so.

                Are all these people like him, desperate to feel something?

                He presses his lips together and considers her. He does feel something, but taking his heart back will mean he always will, not only just in her presence. At least … he thinks so.

                She swallows audibly. “We need to get the car before we get the rest,” she reasons. She shakes her head, looking bewildered. “God, I must be crazy.”

                He pushes his forehead into hers and then walks into the enclave. He reaches across the fronts of the wooden drawers, knocking the handles musically. His brow furrows. Which is his?

                She steps shoulder-to-shoulder with him and grabs his hand. He feels full, complete, and suddenly knows exactly which box has his heart. He yanks it free, disturbing dust and cobwebs, and the feeling intensifies. “Let’s go.”

                They take the stairs two at a time, the box clutched in between his sweaty palms. He can’t quite believe it, can’t quite comprehend.

                Henry’s book is right; absolutely and unequivocally.

                The rational parts of him can’t compute this, even as he works together with Emma to slide the casket back into place.

                Their eyes meet once they finish, stunned disbelief shared between them. She touches the drawer with the tips of her fingers, mouth parting. He thinks he sees a spark alight in the empty space between, but it vanishes just as quickly.

                “It’s real. It’s real,” she stutters breathlessly.

                “Emma,” he says, reassuring. The proof is swelling, but he wants her to come to this realization as slowly as she needs. He reaches to cup her jaw, index finger brushing over the bruise he’d made on the underside, locking her back to reality.

                “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

                Emma turns the beam of her flashlight out in shock, straight into Regina’s exasperated face. She turns from the bright light but still manages to look foreboding and impatient in equal time.

                He turns cold; it is fully paralyzing to see her, especially now.

                They share a look before he hides the box behind him, and Emma cautiously moves to block her sight as she slips out first. “We’re law enforcement, Madam Mayor,” she spits warily. “What do you think we’re doing here?”

                Regina’s eyes narrow. “Just what are you implying?”

                He swallows back bile and speaks up, “We’re following up on a call. Trespassing.” The lie slips out surprisingly even.

                Something in her visibly relaxes, smirk tweaking her lips. She still looks unnerved behind her steady coolness, but it is more at ease now. She bares teeth more than smiles. “Is that all?”

                “What are _you_ doing here?” Emma demands.

                She raises a single brow, looking her best to be exasperated. “Bringing flowers to my father’s grave like I do every Wednesday.”

                No, that’s not it. He can feel that the answer is not so simple, and a cold sweat breaks over him, left arm still pressing the box into his spine. Evil Queen. If this is his heart, she is truly the Evil Queen.

                Regina crosses her arms when they don’t respond. “And am I to assume you’re done stampeding all over my father’s resting place?”

                He can practically feel the vibrations of the beats behind him, but also remembers how hastily his vest has been tucked into his pants. He isn’t sure how much of what was done in the past forty minutes is visible to her now, and that worries him.

                _Dangerous_. She’s dangerous.

                “We’re still investigating,” Emma says stubbornly, and grabs ahold of his forearm in support.

                Regina looks down at the connection, and when she looks up her focus has completely changed. Instead of protecting her secret, she is jealous. She wants to exude control, especially in front of Emma. He knows in a split second that her goals have completely changed. “You don’t look well, dear,” she purrs, trying to pull him in. She reaches and grabs his wrist just distally of Emma’s hand and pulls. “Let’s get you home.”

                “No,” he says, and pulls back. He worries for a second, but maybe it will be easier. He has his heart, and he can stops this _now_. “I don’t want to go home. Not with you.”

                Her eyes flash angrily. “Oh? But you’ll go with her.”

                Emma steadies her posture, but slips away from touching him.

                He knows he can’t look towards Emma, because if he does she will go after her. He needs to keep her ire on him. “This is between us,” he insists. “Things need to change.”

                “And I wonder why that is all of a sudden,” she glowers.

                “It has nothing to do with her,” he insists. It’s almost a lie, but not really. Emma is only a piece of what is breaking him away. She is only his strength.

                Her eyes flick from her to back to him with open annoyance.

                “I don’t feel anything with you. And you are the reason for that,” he growls, shoulders squaring. She took his heart. She took his _life_.

                “So, you’re leaving me for her?” she says flatly.

                He smiles and shakes his head, posture straightening. “I’m leaving you for me.”

                Emma’s body heat returns, flanking him. He can feel something strong build in the space between them, brightening and lightening the air around them.

                “Graham,” Regina tries, slinking forward. “You’re not thinking straight.”

                His smile is more of a sneer as he looks down at her. “Actually, for the first time, I am. I’d rather have nothing than settle for less. Nothing? Is better than what we have.”

                She tries big eyes, stunned and crocodile tears. “Graham—“

                “No,” he says, hissing from deep within his chest. “We are _done_.”

                He reaches out with his free hand, linking fingers with Emma, drawing on the power she emanates. He can’t help but look at her, to see if she understands.

                Emma’s eyes are soft, beaming in pride, and with that echo of feeling he recognizes from his own soul. She loves him back, then?

                “I don’t know what I ever did to you, Miss Swan.”

                 They both turn back, having forgotten her for a second.

                Tears have disappeared, and Regina is suddenly hardened, fury barely contained. She is staring down Emma, and his mind whites out in panic. “To deserve this? To have you keep coming after everything I hold dear?”

                “This isn’t about her,” he growls protectively, sweeping in front of her.

                “None of this happened until she showed up,” Regina snarls.

                Emma presses a hand between his shoulder blades and then a reminder tap on the box before she steps out from behind him. “I’m sorry,” she mocks in a tone that is anything but. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe the problem isn’t with me, but with you?”

                “Excuse me?” she replies, incredulous.

                “Henry came and found me,” Emma says with a pleasant gleam in her eye. She adjusts her jacket slightly and tilts her chin, letting the forming bruise on her neck become blatantly apparent. “Graham kissed me.”

                Regina’s eyes narrow as they find the marks and she glowers at them both.

                “Emma,” he warns under his breath. Provoking her will not help in this matter.

                Emma ignores him, circling the other woman. “Both were miserable.”

                He doesn’t like the look on Regina’s face, the wait. Emma’s confidence is radiating over her, but it’s too much. Too easy.

                “Maybe, Madam Mayor, you need to take a good hard look in the mirror and ask yourself why that is,” she pauses, stepping into her space. “Why is everyone running away from you?”

                Regina looks like she’s going to respond, but then punches Emma with enough force to send her into him. He falls back, box bumping against the wall and he grunts at the sharp pain. Emma’s not even thinking, immediately diving after her. She returns the punch threefold, wailing into her.

                His brain whites out in fear, though he’s not exactly sure why. “Emma, stop!” he cries, and quickly sets the drawer down to run for her. He drags her, kicking and flailing, off the other woman. She was most certainly winning, but there is something he barely remembers that makes him know it’s necessary to keep the women separate.

                Emma’s eyes are wild, and she is panting heavily when she steadies on her feet. Regina dabs her bloodied mouth, trying to look less hurt than she is, pride high in her expression.

                “Emma, we need to get out of here,” he reminds lowly into her hair.

                She is vibrating in anger but nods once. “Let’s go.” She is the one to bend to grab the box with forceful intent before she stalks into the mist. He trails only a few paces behind to let her compose herself, not bothering to look back at Regina.

                He feels her eyes on his back, ominously, all the same.

                When he catches up, Emma is back at the bug. Tears are streaming down her face, and she is barely able to hold back a sob when she turns away. “Oh, God, oh, Graham, if this is true,” she says and hugs the box to her chest. She looks lost, like everything has caught up with her.

                He knows this isn’t all for him, can see the cracks in her façade. He hovers over her, unsure how to proceed.

                She slumps against the bug, dazed. “She ruined my life,” she finally says. She looks up, her eyes haunted. “If this is true, _she ruined my life_!”

                He gives up on hesitating and embraces her, his heart between them. “I know, Emma. I know.”

                She keeps her arms around the drawer but doesn’t protest, sobbing softly into his chest. She ducks her head in embarrassment and grabs a fistful of his shirt in a free hand. “ _Get us out of here_.”

                “Where?” he asks, rubbing her back comfortingly. He eyes the mansion looming over them, wondering if anywhere in Storybrooke is a safe place for them.

                She shakes her head and looks up at him blearily. “The station. Your house? Just not—“ she shudders hard and buries her head again, tears collecting into the hollow of his throat.

                _Snow White’s her mother_. Mary Margaret. She isn’t ready to see her yet. He nods and cups her face, wiping a few tears from her cheeks. “Okay, let’s go to the station. You’ve got a good bruise coming, and I have a kit there,” he says soothingly.

                “The box?” she asks, raising it.

                He swallows. There’s something so innocently beautiful about her holding out his heart like that. “Keep hold of it. We’ll figure that part out later.”

                She is quiet the whole ride, staring out into the dim light of the streets. He is still processing his own emotion, but she seems … like her whole world has been yanked into disjointedness. He can’t say that he doesn’t empathize, but what’s different for him is that everything now feels _right_.

                He is justified, vindicated. He has broken as free from Regina as he can be. He is in love with the woman beside him and knows that she feels something for him as well. He may not remember everything, but things are falling into place for him in a way that seems like it is meant to be.

                As he listens to her biting back more tears, he can’t say that she feels the same. And he can’t quite feel that all-consuming freedom without her at peace with herself.

                By the time he unlocks the station and flicks on the light, she is mostly under control again. She sniffs as she pushes up onto her desk, brushes her eyes with her forearms. She steels herself a moment and blinks owlishly at him. “Sorry.”

                He shakes his head. “No need for that,” he says. He brushes back her hair, cupping her face delicately before resting the ice pack on her temple. “It’s a lot.”

                She nods and furrows her brow. “It’s all real, isn’t it?”

                He hesitates and then nods. “I can’t really remember much. But yes, I think it is.” He looks over to the box on his desk, next to the open first aid kit.

                “How do we fix this?” she asks, following his stare. “I mean, all of it. Not just the human organ in the wooden box on top of Marco’s desk,” she says somewhat bitterly.

                He shrugs. It occurs to him, then, how she is willing to believe even when the box remains sealed. He didn’t even remember that it was still locked until he looked at it just now, but she is somehow able to take the leap of faith regardless. His brow furrows slightly before switching to antiseptic. She hisses as it is placed over the cut, but lets him tend to it without a protest. He tries to be delicate, to dab gently. She needs care right now and he is determined to give it, ignoring all else buzzing inside him. “I don’t know. I only know what Henry’s told me.”

                She laughs a little hysterically and leans back. “Kid knows better than all of us.”

                “Yes,” he says simply. He will be thankful for the lad’s help down the line, he is sure. He raises her chin with his fingers and studies the wound. It won’t need stitches or steri-strips as it looks to have closed on its own.

                She silent, watching him with glassy eyes as he tends to her. “What’s going to happen with this?”

                He looks down at her a long moment before dropping the wipe to the side. She’s not talking about the curse anymore, that’s blatant. He still feels how it was to be inside her, and wants so much to be a part of her again. He rolls circles against her skin with his thumbs, comforting himself with the feel of her. “I don’t know,” he finally says, brow furrowing. He looks up, intent. “You know what I want. Now it’s what _you_ want.”

                She presses a hand over his pectoral, pressing slightly and his lips part in anticipation. She looks up at him, green eyes wide. “We should fix it first, shouldn’t we?”

                He tries not to look disappointed, but isn’t sure if he manages. But he wants to be with her, in whatever that means for her. He’s somehow certain none of those feelings will change once the heart is back in his body. She is enough. “I guess so.”

                She has that flash of vulnerability again, that peek into her soul. “Maybe—a promise,” she whispers over his lips, and leans in. “Because I want you, too.”

                And then she is kissing him, mouth pressed delicately across his. He groans and presses a fraction harder, still soft as air. It is nothing at all like the first kiss; there is no insecurity, no urgency. She guides him slowly into deepening the kiss, tongue brushing against his and—

                It all comes fast, rushing to him like a flood. Wolves and a village, arrows and dark eyes, a drawer and commands … it’s back. _It’s all back_.

                He breaks the kiss with a gasp, falling backward. He can only blink as he realizes. “I _remember_.”

                “Graham?”

                His head is swimming. He looks up, staring at Emma— _princess_ , the child of people that he saved and who discarded him. He can see them all as they were: Snow White, her prince, _Regina_. “I remember,” he reiterates, and sorts through memories to recall _what breaks curses_. _His_ Emma.

                “You … you remember what?” she asks, fear and uncertainty in her tone.

                He shudders, and reaches out to cup her face. “Emma,” he pauses, swelling in the emotion. He bends to kiss her again, to explore like he hadn’t the chance to the times before and she melts into his touch. _Hers_. “Thank you.”

                Her smile is absolutely blinding, those stores of emotion building up beneath her lashes. “All of it?” she questions.

                He nods, awed, as he realizes that he does. Everything of the last twenty eight years and beyond. “Because of you. Because of _us_.”

                She is teary, but continues beaming. “Us.”

                He can’t help but kiss her again, smiling into it. Darkness is back in his memories and scarring tracks through his brain, but everything about her is _light_ and he drinks it in. He loves her so much, and somehow sealing it with something true rather than simply something physical makes him _stronger_.

                Not that he doesn’t react when she nibbles his lower lip and explores with her tongue, sliding her hands across his stomach.

                “Backwards works for us,” she whispers, and kisses him deeper. “Maybe I can be that thing Henry says and also be part of _this_.”

                He tucks her hair behind her ear and actually laughs, his soul free and weightless. He can be her Huntsman to his Savior. She that will break them all free, and he can be the one to keep her upright. To protect her. Surely Regina will truly be after them now.

                That should worry him more than it does, he thinks, as he kisses her again. He remembers all that the witch has done in the past, to him and to others, and knows it won’t be easy. Everything he remembers tells him it won’t be.

                So why, with Emma in his arms, does it feel like it’s _so_ easy?

                Perhaps it’s because he believes in her enough to know that she can triumph.

                “We can figure this out together, Graham,” she murmurs, and coaxes his mouth open with hers.

                They aren’t meant to break the Dark Curse, he realizes as he presses her into the desk, arms winding around her back to pull her closer, but that’s okay. They broke his, and that’s enough for now.

                They can be enough.

                He loves her so fully, and he feels it acutely in her, too; words aren’t necessary in this case. They’ve already proven they are true.

                Tomorrow, they can work on the rest.

 

 


End file.
